Bits and Bobs
by GallifreyGal
Summary: Steve, Tony, and their son Peter-these are some stories from their lives together as a family. These are drabbles from the LID-verse.
1. After the Credits

A/N: This first chapter are two 'after the credits' scenes, so to speak, for _A Lesson in Domesticity_.

**Marvel After-the-Credits Scene One**

"Looks like I came a little late to the party," Bruce said to Thor, looking around the press conference room. Most everyone was filing out. Thor slapped him on the back. Bruce really wished he wouldn't do that.

"Your assistance was, thankfully in this incident this morning, not required! As such, it was not required this evening for the press!" Thor said.

"Oh," Bruce said, a crease appearing in his brow in confusion. "Then why did you call me in?"

"I have a proposition for you, dear friend!" Thor boomed, guiding him with one giant hand into the hall. Jane and Darcy stood there, waiting, along with Clint and Natasha. "Jane and Natasha and Clint and Darcy and I all wish to go out! But I thought it would be better if you were here! And I thought, even better, if you and Darcy could be a pair for the evening!"

"What?" both Bruce and Darcy asked. Bruce asked calmly—a little _too_ calmly, perhaps—and Darcy squawked.

"Yes, it is a fabulous idea! I always have the best of ideas! Will you join us, man-of-science-and-rage?" Thor asked. Bruce looked at Darcy. Darcy shrugged.

"Yeah I—I guess. Sounds…fun," Bruce said. Thor pounded him on the back again, so hard that Bruce had to catch his glasses as they went flying off his face. He _really_ wished Thor wouldn't do that. Darcy took his arm.

"If you get handsy," she said, "I'll taze you." Bruce blinked back at her.

"That's probably not the best idea…" he said cautiously. She just raised an eyebrow and met his gaze.

"I. Will. Taze. You," she said, and then she walked off with the rest of the group as they all walked, laughing and chatting out of the Triskelion. Bruce just smiled as he caught up.

Actually, this could be even more fun than he'd expected.

**After-the-Credits, Scene Two**

They wouldn't say why. They wouldn't even say how. But he was dead and gone.

There had been so much he'd wanted to say, so much he'd _needed_ to say. And now he'd never get to say it, not to anything but a headstone.

Harry swirled around the alcohol in his glass. He'd been left with a mess, too. Oscorp stock was plummeting as the Avengers announced that it was _Oscorp_ tech that caused the Goblin, and _Oscorp_ tech that dispersed the lizard serum. It would be a miracle if Harry avoided the company going bankrupt.

Harry drank the glass, poured another.

He'd called Peter. Who else would he call? But Peter was in the hospital. Appendicitis, Tony Stark had told him briskly when he'd picked up Peter's phone. Besides, Harry had made a mess of all that, too.

That was all the Osborns were good at it would seem. Making messes for other people to clean up.

Harry drained the second glass. Poured another.

The Avengers were all to blame for this. He even knew that they had _something_ to do with his father's death. It had been S.H.I.E.L.D. who called him, after all. What else could that mean? And yet his father's death was brushed under the rug while the news gossiped about Captain America and Iron Man being married. As if that _mattered_. They couldn't just take his life, they had to take his legacy, too, and they even had to take his death's spotlight. They took everything from him, and everything from Harry, too.

Harry drained his third glass and got up, with no real aim or knowledge of where he was going. He stopped when he caught sight of the mirror. Rumpled shirt, mussed hair, red eyes, and an alcohol stain on his jacket. He could practically hear his father's scathing voice in his head. _You're a mess, Harry_.

"_Harry_." He heard.

But of course, it was all just in his head.

"_Harry_."

Or so he thought.


	2. Sketches

It started with the use of Pops, which, Steve was convinced, was entirely Tony's fault for using the term sarcastically one too many times in their son's presence. Peter didn't mean it any differently—he shortened Papa to Pops just like he shortened Daddy to Dad, but the sarcastic edge with which Tony had used it lingered in Steve's mind whenever his young son called out to him. It brought on an odd feeling that Steve hadn't felt before, and the feeling stuck. Steve couldn't describe it, and didn't have a name for it, so he did his best to ignore it. That was when Peter was six.

When Peter turned eight, he became eligible to enter into his elementary school's science fair. If Peter needed help with his homework (a rarity, given that the boy was just as genius as Tony), Steve was usually the one to give it to him. Tony made fun of him for being a 'housewife' (which Steve was _not_, thank you very much, he had a _very_ full job as Captain of the Avengers—it just left him with very flexible hours that let him be home with his son more often, so there) but Steve had to grudgingly admit that the description was occasionally apt. Tony was often busy working in his workshop, but Steve was perfectly capable of handling school assignments and had more time to do so. So when Peter needed help with ideas for the science fair, he naturally gravitated to Pops.

That was, until Tony swooped in with a thousand great ideas, all that Peter could do with minimal help from either of his dads. Peter enthusiastically embraced his Dad's help. When Pops found him working on it by himself later, he asked if he could use a hand. Peter had just blinked at him.

"No, I've got it. This isn't really your thing, anyway, is it?" He'd gone back to working on his project and, a little surprised, Steve had gone off to the gym.

Steve had missed a good chunk of his son's life—he'd been MIA for six months (an experience he'd rather not think on) when Peter was nine, and he'd returned to a family that was deliriously happy to have him back. But he'd also returned to a family that had learned how to function without him. Peter didn't ask him for help on his homework anymore—he went to Tony for that. All their old routines—breakfast in the mornings all together, Peter coming in from school to sit at the table and eat whatever snack Steve had prepared while chatting about his day, dinner served promptly at seven, family game night on Friday, movie night on Sunday—had been thrown out the window. He made breakfast only to have Peter wake up two minutes before the bus arrived and grab a Pop-Tart, while Tony wandered in for some toast and wandered back to the garage to work on something. He made snacks for Peter, but Peter never came into the kitchen—he went straight up to his room. He had dinner on the table at seven, but no one came downstairs, and when he went up to get them, Peter informed him that he was having dinner at a friend's house, and Tony well, he wasn't hungry. Peter had a new video game that he preferred to Monopoly and Life and Battleship, and thus game nights no longer existed. On Sunday, Peter worked on all the homework he'd put off over the weekend—there was no time for movie night anymore.

This was when Steve thought he had a name for what he was feeling—he thought he was feeling like he wasn't _needed_. But that was only part of it.

It was when Peter turned fourteen that Steve _really_ figured it out. He started losing his boyish appearance, taking on the harder lines of a teenager, and Steve could see Tony. He'd _always_ been able to see Tony in Peter, of course, but never was it more obvious than once he hit puberty. Peter was more shy, more quiet, but once you got him going he was a veritable carbon copy of Tony—just as talkative, just as snarky, just as mind-blowingly brilliant. Sometimes Steve was baffled by their conversations.

Steve did his best to keep up. Steve did his best to help Peter where and when he could. But there was still that _feeling_ that Steve couldn't place. And it bothered him. As all teenagers do, Peter withdrew from his dads a bit. But Steve couldn't help but feel like he'd withdrawn _more_ from him than from Tony. He was being ridiculous, he told himself. He was being more than silly. Peter loved them _both_. But Steve couldn't help but be jealous when Peter would turn to his Dad for help with physics homework, with girls, and with all the other little ups and downs of high school years. It wasn't like Peter was ignoring him. Far from it—they were still a happy family. But Steve was beginning to realize what the feeling was, beyond needing to feel needed, beyond jealousy—he was realizing that Tony and Peter had a special bond, and that _he_ and Peter didn't.

"Just go to your room, Peter, you're grounded," Steve said impatiently one day. Peter was fifteen and ornery. Tony was away in Malibu, handling the California division of Stark Industries after they'd managed to screw something up and hurt the stocks. Peter, in the mean time, had skipped his history class—probably to go skateboarding, if Steve had to guess—and while he hadn't gotten detention for it, Steve had received a call from the office.

"But—"

"End of discussion, Peter, I don't want excuses. You know there are consequences for your actions," Steve said. It didn't help that he was suffering from a headache and had, just that morning, been fighting against people under the influence of mind control. There had been civilian casualties. All Steve had wanted to do when he got home was call Tony and go to sleep.

"But I—"

"Just go to your room!" Steve said.

"You're not even listening to me! Don't I get to say my side of the story?" Peter asked.

"What _possible_ good reason could you have for skipping class, Peter? I'm not in the mood today, just go to your room and work on your homework until dinner," Steve said tiredly.

"If Dad were here—" Peter complained. _Ah yes_, Steve thought sardonically, _good cop._

"I _am_ your dad, Peter," Steve said, annoyed. "And it doesn't matter what—"

"You're not my _real_ dad," Peter snapped.

It was worse than a slap. It was worse than a punch in the gut. Steve weathered those on essentially a daily basis. The admission shocked him into stunned silence. It had appeared to do the same for Peter, as even _he_ looked a bit taken aback by his words.

Steve couldn't say anything. He just stood there. And then he did the only thing he could think to do. He grabbed his jacket from where it was slung over the back of a chair and shrugged it on.

"There's chicken parmesan in the oven, just take it out when the timer goes off," Steve said. "Don't wait for me to start." He opened the front door and headed out.

"Pops—" he heard Peter start to say, but he was too far gone to turn back.

He went for a walk through central park. He bought a sketchbook and a few pencils at a nearby art store and tried to sketch—but nothing came out right. The fact of it was, Peter's statement only hurt so much because it was _true_. No matter that Steve had been his Pops since the day he was born, he was lacking that inexplicable, intangible connection that Peter shared with Tony. And he _hated_ it. He loved that Peter and Tony had science to bond over, loved that they had fantastic, witty banter back and forth, loved that they looked like each other—and he even had fun sometimes when he got a glimpse of Howard shining through in Peter or in Tony. But he hated that _he_ didn't have anything like that with Peter.

After a few hours it got dark, and Steve moved into a café, trying to draw the people, but it was still no use. He was too distracted. He got home a little after midnight to find Peter asleep on the couch. Steve couldn't help but be amused by the sight—Peter's hair flew out in every direction, his mouth was partly open, his long, lanky limbs were draped oddly everywhere—one leg was hooked over the back of the sofa, the other dangled partly off the end, one arm stretched out straight behind his head, and the other brushed the floor at his side.

Steve was going to wake him and tell him to get to bed, but he looked so peaceful. So instead, Steve sat down and started to sketch. _This_ drawing came easily. He knew Peter like he knew battle tactics. It was almost complete by the time Peter started to move. He tossed back and forth a little, a crease appearing on his forehead. Steve knew what those subtle little signs meant, so he put the drawing on the coffee table and gently shook Peter awake.

"Mmm?" Peter said as his eyes opened.

"You should probably head upstairs to bed, Pete," Steve said. "That couch isn't the most comfortable place to sleep." Peter looked confused for a moment before he sat up.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep. I was waiting for you to get back," Peter said, sitting up and looking horribly guilty. "Pops, I am so, _so _sorry."

"It's all right, Peter. I should have let you explain. I shouldn't have been so terse with you. I was in a bad mood. I had a headache." _Oh, and I'd just killed some innocent people_. "You should get some sleep," Steve said.

"I didn't mean it," Peter said, pleading. "I didn't mean it, Pops."

"Yeah you did," Steve said. He wasn't mean about it, simply factual. "I know because you were just as surprised as I was. You meant it. And that's…you can't help the way you feel, Peter. I get it."

"No, Pops, I didn't mean it, honest—" Peter said, but Steve cut him off.

"Just go to bed, Peter." This time, Peter didn't argue. Peter went up the stairs and to his room, and the instant he was out of sight, Steve's phone rang.

Oh, right. Tony. His husband popped up on the screen, his workshop in Malibu making up the background.

"Hey, gorgeous, you didn't call earlier and I just realized it's got to be late in the big apple so it's now or never to check in—everything fine? Heard you had a rough morning—mind control, huh? Usually I'd say Richards because, y'know, when _isn't_ he fucking something up, but mind control is a) a bit out of his league and b) kind of _dark_ even for him, so I'm thinking, maybe Doom? I'd need to see a sample of the tech, though, to be sure, but that's my best guess since—"

"Tony, I'm beat, I was just about to head up to bed—can we do this tomorrow?" Steve usually let Tony ramble, usually listened with rapt attention, to be honest, but not today.

"Hey, what's the matter, big guy?" Tony asked. "Did your socks not match this morning? Peter scuff the kitchen floor?"

"I'm in a very bad mood and you're making it worse," Steve said. "So I'm going to hang up before you can do more damage. Good night, Tony."

"Whoa, hey, I was just teasing, Steve, take it easy—what's wrong?" Tony asked.

"It's nothing, Tony. I'd really just like to sleep. I'll call you tomorrow," Steve said. "Night."

"Night, Steve," was Tony's slightly uncertain reply.

The morning was… well, Steve hesitated to call it awkward. It wasn't awkward, but it was tense, and uncomfortable. In the course of one evening, Steve's relationship with his son had caved in, and he wasn't sure how to fix it. Nevertheless, Steve got Peter fed and out the door to school. Despite all the things that had gone down with the mind-controlled people the day before, Steve wasn't required at the Triskelion for anything. They needed to track where the tech had come from, and, to put it in eight-year-old Peter's terms, that really 'wasn't his thing'.

With nothing to do and a creative block on his sketching, Steve picked up an old, weathered copy of _The Hobbit_ (not his own copy from before the war, of course, but a 1938 copy that, in the early days of their relationship, Tony had tracked down for him) and settled on his bed to read. He'd just barely made it to Rivendell when the door opened. Tony came in, a soft smile on his lips.

"Uh-oh, _The Hobbit_ again? You really are upset," Tony said. Taking off his jacket and tie.

"I thought you weren't getting back until Friday?" Steve asked, puzzled.

"And here I thought you were smart, spangles—did you honestly think I was going to stay there after our not-conversation last night?" Tony asked. He kicked off his shoes and got into the bed with Steve, laying on top of the covers, propped up on his elbow.

"I didn't mean to—Tony, you had _work _to do," Steve said, shutting the book and putting it on the nightstand.

"Oh, Pepper can handle it, it's fine. I'd pretty much done all I could, anyway, I think I was starting to get on her nerves," Tony said. "Cough it up, Cap, what's the problem?"

"I had a fight with Peter, that's all," Steve said. "See? Not a big deal, you didn't have to come all the way back—"

"A fight about what, Steve?" Tony asked, more serious now.

"Oh, he skipped class—I figured it was to go skateboarding, _you know_ he's been obsessed with that thing since you gave it to him for Christmas—and I didn't give him a chance to explain himself, I just told him to go to his room. I was tired and had a headache and—yesterday was rough, I guess, and I was impatient, and Peter—you know, it's really nothing, Tony," Steve said uncomfortably. Telling Tony felt oddly like squealing on his son. And boy, was there a lot wrong with feeling _that_ way, like Tony really _was_ the Dad coming home, like he'd lecture Peter and demand he apologize and Peter would follow through with an insincere apology all because his _real_ father told him to, and the thought made Steve feel sick. Tony's hand found his.

"It's bothering you, Steve," Tony said. "So it's not _nothing_, don't bullshit me."

"I was being unfair, Tony. And so he said 'if Dad were here' and I didn't let him finish, I told him that I was his dad and, well I'd intended to tell him that it didn't matter whether or not you were here because you _weren't_ and you'd back me up anyway, but he—it's…kids say dumb things sometimes. That's nothing new," Steve said.

"Steve. _What did he say_?"

"He said I wasn't his _real_ dad—and yes, before you go off the rails, he said he didn't mean it, he apologized. I left after our fight and he waited up until I got home to tell me," Steve said.

"Of course he didn't mean it, Steve," Tony said. "But that was an awful thing to say." Steve shrugged. "You think he meant it."

"He _did_ mean it, Tony, or he wouldn't have said it," Steve said. "And he's _right_."

"Steve," Tony said, shocked.

"No, Tony, he's completely right. I'm _not_ his 'real dad'—you are."

"Steve, you _raised_ Peter, he's not right, it was out of line—"

"It might have been out of line but it wasn't dishonest, Tony. There's a connection between the two of you that doesn't exist between us," Steve said. "You just—you _share_ so much. You've got the same sense of humor, the same interests, the same _looks_—God, what I wouldn't give some days, Tony, to be able to look at Peter and see a little of me there, too. And I know it's selfish and it's not something I should think, but there it is. I _wish_ we could both have been his biological parents. I really do. But we're not, and it's something Peter and I both have to deal with."

There was a loaded silence for a few moments as Tony tried to process Steve's little outburst and Steve wished he could take it back. It wasn't something adoptive parents were supposed to think about the children they'd adopted, was it? That there was something missing. It was wrong and selfish and Steve felt like a _horrible person_ and all he wanted to do was crawl beneath the covers and let Tony hold him as he slept. Which was odd because it was usually the other way around. Tony looked at Steve seriously, sincerely.

"Do you want kids, Steve?" he asked. Steve was taken aback by the question.

"We have a kid, Tony. We have Peter," he answered, confused. Tony shook his head.

"Do _you_ want to _have kids_, Steve? Is that…is that important to you? To be a biological father? To see…I don't know, little blonde haired blue eyed rugrats running around the house? I know that this…all this…isn't exactly what you…what you must have thought you'd have after the…when you got back, I mean. I took you for the white picket fence, little wife, two and a half kids and a golden retriever type when I met you but then…you surprised me and I guess I just forgot that that side of you might still exist. So do _you_ want to have kids, Steve?" Tony asked very carefully. Steve sighed.

"That's not what's at issue here, Tony. This is about me and Peter. I feel like he's slipping away from me. Like he's been drifting piece by piece for years and there's nothing I can do to stop it," Steve said. Tony squeezed his hand.

"All teenagers drift away from their parents. That's life," Tony said.

"Yeah, but I think he's drifting more away from me than from you," Steve said mournfully. Tony reached up and gently brushed back a stray blonde lock of hair from Steve's forehead.

"Tell me what I can do to make this better. To fix it," Tony pleaded.

"You can't, Tony," Steve said with a sad smile. His husband was always trying to help. It was impossible to stop Tony Stark from trying to fix things. "I have to. Me, and Peter." Steve pecked Tony on the cheek before picking up his book again, happy to be lost in Rivendell for the moment. Tony just laid beside him for a little while, but he didn't seem like he was dozing off. He looked deep in thought. And after a bit he looked at Steve, very seriously again and said,

"You've never talked about this before." Steve shrugged. Talking wasn't one of his strong suits. That was Tony's area. "You know sometimes I lie here, like I lie beside you every night, and realize that I hardly know you at all, that I have no idea what goes on inside your head." Steve put the book down.

"Now that's a thing to say," Steve said, a bit alarmed. Tony shrugged. Steve wasn't sure what to make of that, himself. He was formulating a response when Tony spoke again. Tony was always speaking.

"And you never answered my question."

"What question?"

"Do you want to have kids?"

"Oh, Tony…"

"I'm serious! Don't you 'Oh, Tony' me," Tony said. He looked almost angry. Or maybe it was hurt. Somewhere in between. Steve sighed.

"They were never blonde."

"What?"

"The kids. You said you figured I'd dreamed up little blonde haired, blue-eyed kids to run around a house after the war, but that's not quite true. They were never blonde. They always had dark hair. It was a very specific fantasy, populated by phantoms of the might-have-been. They changed, sometimes. Once there was a little boy, with dark curly hair like Peggy's, and blue eyes like mine. He had a younger sister, too, much the same, and they would bicker, and I'd tell him not to pick on his little sister and Peggy and I would have a good laugh about it as we fondly watched them play out in the yard. I was angry, for a while, after I came back. I couldn't get over it, couldn't stop thinking about that house, and those kids, and, most of all, Peggy. They say you can't lose what you never had, but that's a lie. I lost every single might-have-been I'd had," Steve said. He could see Tony's face getting more and more guarded, and Steve knew what he was thinking, so he shook his head.

"But the thing is, Tony, that they _were_ just might-have-beens. They were just fantasies, and daydreams, and those are things that change. And when I met you—ok, no, not when I met you, that's a lie, but when we started dating, there was a new fantasy life. And there was just you and me—and the Avengers—and every boring, mundane scene of the everyday as we grew old together. And then there was Peter and, well, that was more than I had expected and it was _wonderful_. It _is_ wonderful. I don't have fantasies anymore, Tony. I have everything I ever wished for, and more." Steve finished, and Tony smiled and pulled him into a deep kiss. It was a whole makeout session later before either of them spoke again.

"You know," Tony said, glancing at his watch—3:37, Steve saw; Peter would be home soon, "You're _very_ good at avoiding the question." Steve smiled a bit impishly and picked his book up again.

"I _excel_ at it," Steve said. And no more was said on the subject.

When Peter came home at four, Tony was fighting with the toaster, and Steve was sitting on the couch, drawing. His inspiration had returned to him, and he was drawing a quick comic of Bilbo, Gandalf, and the dwarves arriving at Rivendell. Peter spoke briefly with Tony about his day at school, and Steve was relieved that Tony did not try to lecture him or reprimand him in any way for what had transpired between Peter and Steve. Then Peter sat down next to Steve, which was a bit of a surprise. He looked intently at the drawing.

"Is that…Rivendell?" Peter asked, his eyebrows drawn together as he looked at the sketch.

"It is," Steve said. "And this is Bilbo, Gandalf, Thorin, Fili, Kili—"

"Since when do you draw stuff like this?" Peter asked. Steve blinked.

"Stuff like what? Stuff like _The Hobbit_?" Steve asked. Peter shook his head.

"No I mean…like, comic-style drawings. Not…you know, beautiful stuff made with charcoal or pen that looks like a black and white photo, but just…comics," Peter said. Steve laughed.

"Since always!" he said. "That's what I used to do."

"Draw…comics? Seriously?" Peter asked. Steve both at once could and could not believe that he had neglected to ever mention this to his son. He could believe it because well, he rarely talked about _before_. But he _couldn't_ believe it because, well, it seemed such an essential thing to overlook.

"Seriously. I didn't work on anything you'd know. I worked with Detective Comics, but not on any of the stuff you'd know today—although they did have me fill in once, draw the last few pages of a Superman comic, because their regular guy was sick with something and couldn't finish," Steve said, remembering with amusement. "It's always bothered me how the name got shortened. DC Comics is really just Detective Comics Comics—seems a bit redundant, doesn't it? Bothered me, too, that I worked for Detective Comics most of the time but Timely Comics got the Captain America rights." Peter was still staring at the comic Steve was in the middle of drawing. Then he looked up at Steve, face all full of earnest enthusiasm.

"Do you—I mean, do you think you could teach me how to do that?" Peter asked.

"Teach you to draw?"

"Yeah. But not like…not the stuff you usually do. But comics. Like this," Peter said.

"Well, sure," Steve said. Peter smiled widely and then raced off. Steve just stared after him, a bit baffled.

"Drifting away, huh?" Tony asked from the kitchen, sounding amused. Peter bounded back down the stairs moments later, a sketchbook and a few pencils in his hand. He sat back down on the couch.

"You want to learn now? Right now?" Steve asked.

"Yeah! Quick as I can!" Peter said. Steve scratched the back of his head absently.

"Uh, all right… Well, first things first—why don't you show me what you can do…"

They sat on that couch for hours. If Peter had any homework, Steve knew it wasn't getting done. He didn't particularly care, so reluctant was he to interrupt this tentative, sudden bond that Steve did not entirely understand. They had gone from an awkward, damaged relationship suddenly back to full blast, and it sent Steve's head reeling. It was strange, not to know where he stood with his son.

But he didn't have to wait long to figure out where, exactly, that was. At the end of the week, on a Saturday, Peter plopped himself on the couch next to Steve, where he and Tony were watching Grey's Anatomy, and handed him a drawing.

"I've been working on it like crazy," Peter admitted.

_The Secret Life of Peter Parker_ the title page read, and the front was a picture of Peter, at school, at his locker, with all the other kids talking around him, but not to him.

"It's seriously cheesy but I've heard parents like that kind of thing," Peter said. His face was a little bit red.

"Peter, you're very talented," Steve said, meaning every word. He'd told Peter as much the first night that he had helped him learn to draw. Peter already had an amazing eye and a good hand. It hadn't taken much help at all from Steve, really, before Peter had mastered a comic book style of his own.

"Turn the page," Peter said. Steve obeyed.

[_Our story starts with Peter Parker, your average student at Midtown Science High. There was nothing extraordinary about him—at least, not that the other students could see_.] The page was filled with panels of Peter going about his daily life at school—nearly falling asleep in class, listening to lectures, standing in line for lunch. Steve flipped to the next page.

[_But if only they knew! Peter Parker had a secret life, and in it, he had the coolest parents ever—Iron Man and Captain America!_] This page was just one huge panel, with Iron Man and Captain America standing in superhero poses, with Peter, his backpack still on, standing in a superhero pose between them. Steve flipped the page.

[_Peter was a bit more like Iron Man. They both liked technology and science, and they even looked alike. Of the two, Peter was definitely more like Iron Man.]_ This page was filled with panels of Peter doing things with his Dad, mostly all technology related—taking apart that toaster, working on the computer… Steve flipped the page.

[_Peter _wanted _to be more like Captain America. Who wouldn't want to be more like Captain America? Captain America was good and kind and just. He was perfect. But Peter was nothing like Captain America at all_.] The panels on this page all had Captain America doing ridiculously heroic things—saving children from a burning school bus, saving a cat from a tree—all while comic Peter watched from a distance.

[_Peter tried, but every time Peter tried, the less like the Captain he became_.] This page depicted Peter at school again. Another student said in a speech bubble, "I need help. I have an appointment today, so the doctors can figure out what's wrong with me. But my Mom is at work and can't come. I'm afraid to go alone. Will you come with me?" Comic Peter agreed, and the next panel lands him in the principal's office, being yelled at for cutting class, and the next at home, being yelled at for the same, and the last panel showed Peter's outburst, _"You're not my REAL Dad!"_ Steve, feeling even more like an ass than he had after it happened, flipped the page.

[_Peter could never be as good as the Captain, no matter how hard he tried. He would always be more like Iron Man. That was ok, Iron Man was good, but he still wished he could be like the Captain, even if there was no hope for it._] This was just a page of Peter sitting alone in his room. Steve felt _awful_. He turned the page.

[_But then, Peter Parker realized something. Peter realized that his parents weren't Iron Man and Captain America_.] This page was a repeat panel of them all in superhero poses, but this time Peter looked back at both of them from the foreground. Steve turned the page, and though they were still in the same poses, it was now Peter looking at Steve Rogers and Tony Stark instead, with the text: [_They were Steve Rogers and Tony Stark.]_ Steve turned the page again.

[_He liked science and technology like Tony, and his hair stuck up like his. They had the same laugh and they both cracked a lot of jokes._] These were panels much like the ones that had come before, with Peter and Tony doing a multitude of different things together. Steve turned the page.

[_Peter wasn't like the Captain. But he _was_ like Steve Rogers. They watched the same shows and read the same books. They liked to cook (though Peter was bad at it). But most important of all, Steve Rogers had always been there for Peter_.] These panels were full of the things the narrative described, and for the last sentence various scenes had been drawn, in full, so that Steve had to flip through several pages to see them all—Steve, taking care of Peter when he was sick, Steve finger painting with a toddler Peter on the floor, Peter on Steve's shoulders at Disneyland, Steve helping Peter with his homework at the kitchen table, Steve and Peter just watching a movie together on the couch. And at last Steve got to a page with more narrative.

[_It didn't matter, how alike or unlike they were. Because in the end, Steve Rogers had made Peter Parker in a thousand little ways. And they might sometimes seem insignificant, they might sometimes seem small, but in the end, Peter Parker was Peter Parker because of Steve Rogers _and_ Tony Stark. And that was the truth of it all._] The last page showed the three of them again, mirroring a family portrait they had taken years ago. Steve put the drawings on the coffee table in front of him.

There would be time, later, for Steve to explain how Peter was his son, through and through. There would be time to explain that Steve had been a bit of an ass that day, that Peter had done the right thing. There would be time to explain, as Steve was just realizing now, that Peter was more like the Captain than he thought. There would be time to fix this, Steve thought. But that would be later. Because that moment, now, was filled only with Steve, and Peter, and one great big hug.


	3. Junior Agent Peter

Peter flipped through the photo albums, looking for a suitable picture. There had to be a good one in here somewhere—one that wasn't too horribly embarrassing… He had to find a suitable baby picture for a stupid biology project. They were supposed to demonstrate how the human ages, and how aging software can predict what a child looks like. But to do that (and to check the accuracy of such software), they had to bring in a picture of themselves as toddlers.

Peter furrowed his eyebrows as he came upon an odd photo. It was from his dads' wedding, but he'd never seen it before. It wasn't in their wedding album. Both his dads were holding him, dressed in their wedding outfits. But Peter wasn't in the mini-tux that he always saw in those pictures—instead, he was dressed in his old Iron Man costume, with a Captain America shield on his arm—and they weren't on the beach, but at some sort of airport runway or army base…

"Pops?" he called out. "Hey, Pops!" He grabbed the photo from out of the album and went into the kitchen where his pops was making dinner. He showed the picture to his pops. "What is this?" Pops grinned.

"Oh, that? Well, that's a story of parental neglect, actually…right before the wedding, we sort of, well, sort of _forgot_ you…"

"Have you got the rings?" asked Tony.

"Yes I've got the rings—what about your tux? Did you pack your tux?" asked Steve.

"I'm sure I packed my tux, why would I forget that? What about your uniform?"

"It's all ready—did you pack Peter's suitcase yet? Because Pepper's not going to know how to do that right."

"It's already on the plane," said Tony.

Peter watched his dads run about the house. They'd told him that they were all going on a trip, because his dad and his pops were getting married, which they'd explained meant they'd promised to love each other forever. Peter wondered if he should be concerned that they hadn't married him, too—but they'd just laughed when he asked about it. The doorbell rang. Peter crawled toddled to the door, but his pops picked him up before he got there, holding Peter up as he answered the door.

"Oh, Pepper, thank God—"

"Deep breaths, Steve," Pepper said.

"Aunt Peppy!" Peter cried, stretching his arms out towards her. Pepper smiled.

"Hey, Petey!" she said, taking him from Steve. She bounced him up and down and he laughed. Steve shut the door and Pepper put Peter down when he started to squirm. He ran back towards his toys, wanting to show Aunt Peppy (a name which, unbeknownst to Peter, caused Pepper much grief when it was used by Tony) his new Captain America shield. "Are you ready to get going? The pilot is all ready to take off."

"Yes! Yes we're all ready to get going!" Tony said. "Oh—wait—no—" Tony groaned. "Oh God, where are the _rings_?"

"You just said you had them!"

"I _did_ just have them!"

"We'll help you look for them—"

"—one of you get Peter—Oh, I was just in the kitchen!" The three adults all made their way to the kitchen. Peter, however, could not find his Captain America shield. Well, he wasn't going anywhere without that shield. If it wasn't in the living room, then it must be up in his bedroom!

Peter crawled upstairs to the sounds of banging pots and panicked voices—the steady thump-thump-thump of him going up the stairs couldn't be heard. He waddled into his bedroom. Toys were all over the ground—Peter would later say that he had been spoiled as a child, and looking at the room in such a state it would be hard to argue.

But where was the _shield_? Peter looked in his closet, but it wasn't in there. He looked under the drawers, but it wasn't there, either.

"FOUND IT!" shouted Tony. "I don't even remember _opening_ the fridge—"

Peter went into his bathroom, but it wasn't in there, either.

"Ready to go now?" Steve asked.

"Ugh, yes, let's get out of here before we forget something else," said Tony.

"Or before the pilot gets impatient and just _leaves_," Pepper said. "Let's go!" Peter heard a door opening and then, moments later, shutting. But where was his shield? Peter crawled under his bed—aha! His shield! Peter grabbed the tiny plastic toy and crawled back out from underneath the bed. Now he was ready to _assemble!_ Uncle Bruce and Aunt Tasha and Uncle Clint and even Uncle Thor and Aunt Jane would all be at the wedding—so maybe Peter could join the Avengers while they were all there. Now that he had his shield, he could fight bad guys just like his dads!

Peter crawled back down the stairs with his shield in hand, but the house was oddly quiet. Peter walked around but no one was there?

"Daddy?" Peter called out. "Poppy?" No one was in the kitchen. No one was in the living room or the dining room either. That was when it dawned on Peter's young little mind—_he'd been left behind!_

Oh, no, this was a tragic accident! Peter was the ring-bearer! He wasn't sure what that was, but apparently it was a really important job. They couldn't get married if Peter wasn't there! They wouldn't get married, and they wouldn't promise to love each other forever! Peter couldn't let that happen.

Determined, Peter toddled back up the stairs, his shield still in hand. He went into his room—what would his dads do? Well, they'd suit up, of course! Peter went into his closet and found his favorite dress-up costume—it was a partly rubber, partly fabric mock-up of his dad's Iron Man suit. It even had a light in the center like his dad's arc reactor. Peter hadn't ever dressed himself before, and it proved to be more difficult than he thought it would be, but eventually he was all dressed up in the outfit, the mask flipped up so that he could see, and a Captain America shield on his arm. Perfect!

…but now what?

"Something feels…off," Steve said with a frown.

"What, having second thoughts?" Tony asked, only half-joking. He handed his fiancé a coke, and got a bourbon for himself.

"Of course not," Steve said firmly, easing a knot in Tony's chest that Tony hadn't even realized was there. "It's just…did we forget something?"

"Steve, we went over the checklist twenty times before we left. We've packed everything," Tony said.

"I know, I just…" Steve shifted in his seat. The plane started to move down the runway.

"Just drink," Pepper advised, coming down the way and handing him a beer. "It'll help with the pre-wedding jitters."

"Thanks," Steve said. He didn't bother to mention that he couldn't even get buzzed. The plane took to the air and Steve tried to relax into the chair. Tony took his hand, a strong, warm, subtle presence to make him feel better. Steve turned his head and smiled at his fiancé. Tony smiled back, and pecked him on the lips.

Oh, it was so difficult to remember that Pepper was also on the plane and that it _wasn't_ time for the honeymoon just yet…

All suited up, but nowhere to go. Peter bit his lip. If this were a _real_ suit he could fly all the way to California, where his dads were getting married (_"On the beach, Pete," _Pops had said. _"It'll be beautiful. You'll love the beach in California—it's a whole new ocean!"_), but it wasn't. What would his dads do if they were stranded?

"Call S.H.I.E.L.D!" Peter exclaimed, struck by his sudden idea. He searched among his toys and pulled out his communicator. He pressed a few buttons and it beeped and flashed. "Agent Nick Furry! Agent Furry this is Peter! The Ring-Bearer is stranded! Repeat: the ring-bearer is stranded!" The communicator blinked and flashed, but there wasn't any answer. This wasn't working. His own communicator was _deficient_! It was, in fact, _defective_. He'd have to use another!

Peter walked into his dads' room. Their bed was much taller than his, but he had practice in climbing up onto it. He stood on the bed and looked around the room—now where had they put their comms? Peter didn't see it out anywhere, so he hopped off the bed and did the only thing he could think of; he started going through all the drawers.

Socks, underwear, photos, bills…suit! Peter found Pops' suit neatly folded in the topmost drawer of the dresser. Peter rummaged around until he found a hard black device. It had more buttons, and it didn't light up, but otherwise it looked exactly like Peter's defective communicator. He put the bud in his ear and pressed the biggest button. He could hear only static, so he pressed another—the static cleared, but he couldn't hear anyone.

"Hello?" Peter asked.

"…Hello?" came the very confused reply. "Rogers, is that you?"

"No, this is Peter," Peter said, and then he thought for a moment and added, "Junior Agent Peter. I need to talk to Agent Furry."

"Agent…Furry?"

"Yeah, Agent Furry. 'Cause I'm the ring-bearer but they forgot me. I'm all suited up, but they forgot me, and I'm the ring-bearer so they can't get married without me, so they can't promise to love each other forever and ever. So I needs Agent Furry, 'cause I needs to assemble for real and fly to California," Peter explained.

"…Peter, where are you?"

"In my dads' bedroom."

"Peter, just stay there. Agent…_Furry_…will come and get you ok?"

"'Kay," said Peter happily.

Agent Phil Coulson walked to his superior, a bit baffled. Agent Fury didn't even look at him when he walked in. He didn't need to.

"Steve Rogers' communicator called," Phil stated.

"And why do you say it like that? What did Agent Rogers want?" Agent Fury asked.

"Agent Rogers was not on the line. Junior Agent _Peter_, however, was," Phil said. "It would seem that the ring-bearer has been left behind at his parents' home in Brooklyn."

"Junior Agent—you mean the three-year-old? How did he call S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Agent Fury asked, practically leaping up from the desk. He pressed a button on his watch and spoke into his own comm.. "I need a security detail at 1033 Taggers Street—it's in Brooklyn. We've got a three-year-old on the loose. Yes, a three-year-old. Do _not_ ask me questions! Just get out there!"

"You know it's almost lunchtime, we should probably get Peter something to eat," Steve said.

"Yeah, he's been so quiet I forgot he was here!" Tony said with a laugh. "Hey, Petey—" Tony turned around in his seat and froze. "Steve? Steve, you put Peter in the car didn't you? And then on the plane?"

"What? No! Pepper did! Pepper!"

"What? Don't look at me! I thought you had him!" Pepper exclaimed.

"WE FORGOT PETER!" Tony and Steve shouted at once.

"—and that's how your parents defeated the evil Loki!" Agent Coulson said. For the past six hours, Agent Coulson had been telling an eager 'Junior Agent' Peter tales of the Avengers as he sat in one of S.H.I.E.L.D's private planes, still dressed in his Iron Man costume and still carrying his shield. The plane touched down on the runway just as he finished the story, and it slowed to a stop. Coulson helped Peter with his seatbelt and picked him up. The stairs lowered from the plane and Coulson stepped down. As soon as he hit the pavement he was attacked by two panicked parents.

"PETER!" Coulson let the little tyke go as his dads hugged him both at once, unable to take turns.

"Did I do good?" Peter asked. "Did I save the wedding?" Steve chuckled.

"Yes, Peter, you saved the wedding," he said. "Look at you, our little hero-in-training!"

"Oh, this is too cute—I'm getting a picture," Pepper said, pulling out her camera. "Say cheese!"

"And that's the story of how you saved our wedding," Pops said with a chuckle.

"It's also the story of how the wedding got delayed by two hours," his Dad, who had come in half-way through the story, added.

"Wow, I would have made a pretty good hero then, huh?" Peter joked. Pops tousled his hair.

"You already are a hero, Peter," Pops said. "The thought of you gets me and your dad through more fights than you know." Peter smiled. "Now sit down and put that picture away—dinner's ready!"


	4. Peanut Butter

"Ok, here, eat this," Natasha said, handing Peter a jar of peanut butter.

"But Aunt Nat, Pops says that I can't eat peanut butter," Peter said, perplexed. Natasha sighed in annoyance.

"Look, kid, I don't care if you're Cap and Iron Man's son, you're going to eat whatever I—"

"Relax, Tasha," Clint said from the stove, where he was cooking an omelet or something, because _of course_ Clint was a fantastic cook. They'd only been living together for three months, but already Natasha had had to refuse his food several times for fear of getting out of shape. Clint liked butter, and a lot of it, and it was still a mystery to Natasha how he managed to burn it all off. "It doesn't surprise me that Steve's imposed dietary restrictions, even if Tony's ignoring them."

"'_Dietary restrictions_', he's _six_. Don't' tell me Steve's gotten with the time on the whole parenting thing and put him on some crazy sugar-free, gluten-free diet," Natasha said, rolling her eyes. She plopped a spoon in the peanut butter jar. "There, kid, go to town."

"_Tasha_, Peter's his kid, if he _has_ got him on some crazy diet, who're we to break it?" Clint asked. Peter scooped out some peanut butter with a spoon and examined it for a moment, before taking an experimental lick. After that, his eyes lit up and he put the whole spoonful in his mouth.

"See? Look how _happy_ he is," Natasha said.

"That's hardly a meal—couldn't you have at least put it on some bread, maybe with some jelly? I think we have grape jelly in the fridge," Clint said, grumbling. He put the omelet on a plate in front of Nat.

"Relax, Clint, he's six," Natasha said, rolling her eyes. "Children are built to survive bad parents—I'm pretty sure Peter can handle a less than perfect pair of babysitters."

"This is really good," Peter said enthusiastically, licking up another spoonful.

"Yeah, isn't it? Your Pops is kind of a—oh, what would they have called him in the forties?—a _fuddy-duddy_."

"_Tasha_. That's the Captain."

"Whom I have the greatest respect for, but he's kind of uptight sometimes. Thank God for this little vacation, he was starting to sound particularly prickly, hopefully Tony can get that stick out of his—" Natasha looked at Peter, and then back to Clint. "—that _thorn_ out of his side. I mean, who doesn't give a kid _peanut butter_?" Clint didn't answer—he was looking past her with wide eyes. He ripped the peanut butter and the spoon out of Peter's hands.

"A father with a kid who has a _peanut allergy!_" Clint said, horrified. Tasha looked at Peter—a red, bumpy rash was crawling up the side of his neck.

"Peter!" Tasha exclaimed. "Oh _shit_."

"They'll be fine, Steve, stop worrying. I gave them a phone with JARVIS installed, he can take care of anything and everything in an emergency and knows every phone number in the world," Tony said, exasperated. They hadn't gone on a vacation without Peter since Peter was _born_. Tony _thought_ a little trip to a private island (ok, yeah, it might have been _their_ private island, but Tony wasn't going to tell Steve he'd bought it because Steve could just be so _weird_ about that stuff) would be the perfect thing to loosen up and relax for the both of them, but Steve had been tense all through dinner, and really, the dinner deserved their full attention. He was _not_ going to let Steve be stressed through _dessert_, which really, _truly_ deserved their full attention.

"You did warn them about Peter's allergy, right?" Steve asked. Tony blinked.

"Allergy?" Tony said, his face falling. "Damn it." Steve's eyes widened a bit and he whipped out his phone. Tony groaned. "Steve, I'm sure Peter knows he isn't supposed to eat—what is it again? Strawberries?"

"That's Pepper—it's _peanut butter_," Steve said, dialing rapidly.

"If he knows, he won't eat it. Besides, what are the odds Clint and Natasha will serve him up peanut butter, anyway?" Tony asked. Steve stared at him while the phone range.

"Are you serious? Peanut butter and jelly is like, a _staple_ for most six-year-olds, of _course_ they'll try to give it to him!" Steve said.

"Well, let's not get too worked up here, ok? It's not a _bad_ allergy—"

"Were you not _listening_ to the allergist? No, of course not—he said _any_ other exposure could lead to anaphylaxis, and it was like playing _Russian roulette with his life_! Do you want to play Russian roulette with Peter, Tony? Because I—Clint, hi, it's Steve," Steve said, sounding relieved that Clint had picked up.

"Peter, _how bad is your allergy_?" Natasha asked. "And why didn't you say it was an _allergy_?"

"I couldn't remember the word!" Peter protested. "And I don't know."

"Shit, Clint, should we call the hospital?" Natasha asked, examining the hives on Peter's neck. She lifted up his shirt—they were popping up all down the left side of his chest, too. At that precise moment, the phone rang.

"Oh, hey, Steve," Clint said, trying to keep the note of panic out of his voice.

"Hey, listen, I'm sorry to interrupt—I just wanted to let you know that Peter has an allergy to peanuts," Steve said.

"Oh, yeah, Tony neglected to mention that—" Clint said.

"Oh, God, is something wrong?" Steve asked.

"No, no, it's fine everything's—everything's fine—hey, could you give Tony the phone for a second? I have to ask him about—uh—an arrow design he's got in the works for me—" Clint said.

"Yeah?" Tony's voice answered a moment later.

"Ok, Tasha gave him peanut butter and now he's breaking out in hives, what the hell do we do?" Clint asked. Tony laughed.

"Really? He said that? He said 'I'm going to kill you with my bare hands'?"

"Hey, you're the idiot who forgot your kid's allergic to freaking _peanut butter_," Clint said.

"That's hysterical—hey Steve, I'm just going to be a minute, ok, Clint and I are going to talk shop, be back in five—" it took a few moments, but then Tony continued in a deadly serious voice. "Ok, how bad is it, what's going on?"

"He's just got hives, what do we do?" Clint asked. Tony sighed in relief.

"Benadryl. Just give him some Benadryl and don't take your eyes off him until all that swelling goes away. If it gets any worse, inject him with epinephrine and take him to the hospital and fucking _call me_ and keep me in the loop," Tony said. "I don't want to worry Steve until this is something to worry about."

"Inject him with _what_?"

"A fucking EpiPen!" Tony said in a hushed voice.

"Tasha, do you know what a—" Clint started to ask, slightly away from the phone, when he looked to see Tasha handing Peter a pill and a glass of water. On the table was a yellow, cylindrical object that said _EpiPen_ on the top. "—how did you…? Nevermind—Tony, we're good here, I'll call you when anything changes."

"You _better_," Tony said, and then hung up the phone. Clint just looked at Natasha.

"How did you know what to do?" Clint asked.

"How are you a super spy with no idea how you treat a mild allergic reaction?" Natasha asked.

"Where did you get that Epi-thing?"

"It was in Peter's backpack. I figured even if Tony can be a moron Steve would have the sense to pack it," Natasha said. "Fuddy-duddies are also always the best prepared."

"Peter, you tell us if you start to feel faint or anything, ok?" Clint said. Peter nodded.

"Yeah, ok," he said. "Can we watch Wall-E?"

"There is no doubt in anyone's mind that you are the genetic spawn of Stark," Natasha said, rolling her eyes but getting up from the kitchen island.

"What?" Peter asked.

"That's a 'yes'," Clint translated.

"Yay!" Peter said, and he dashed off towards the living room.

"Well," Natasha said. "Day one and we nearly killed him. Can't get worse than this, right?"

"Oh, God, don't say that you'll jinx it," Clint joked. He put his arm around Tasha's waist and they headed to the living room to watch Wall-E—and more importantly, to watch Peter.

"You're right, I shouldn't have been so worried," Steve said sheepishly half-way through dessert. "And this dessert is amazing—what is this, even? Cheesecake?"

"Huh? What? Oh—yeah. With brownie and fudge or something," Tony said distractedly. He was checking his phone every five seconds for a text from Clint.

"I should have known Clint and Natasha would be fine with Peter. They'll _be_ fine. I'm sure Peter will have a great time with them, too," Steve said. He reached across the table, taking Tony's hand in his. He smiled and gave it a little squeeze. "And we can just relax together."

"Yeah," Tony said. His phone still refused to buzz—so the swelling hadn't gone up, but it hadn't gone down yet, either. Of course, now that Steve wasn't tense or worried, _Tony_ was. And he would be _all night_, he just knew it.

"And I think I'll ask one of the staff if we can get some of this chocolate delivered to our room," Steve said, innocently dipping his finger in some of the chocolate syrup on the plate and licking it off. But Tony knew that suggestion was anything but _innocent_. And he couldn't even enjoy it.

God damn _peanut butter_.


	5. Halloween

_October 31, 2020_

"All right, and now we scoop out the pumpkin guts," Steve said, taking the top off the large orange pumpkin. Peter's face lit up.

"Pumpkin guts?" he asked enthusiastically.

"Yup, pumpkin guts, see?" Steve dunked his hand in the pumpkin and pulled out a handful of 'guts' and seeds, throwing the guts and seed in separate bowls. "We'll cook the seeds in the oven later."

"Cool!" Peter said, diving in with both hands. He pulled out some orange goo, letting it squish and drip between his fingers. Steve just smiled and wiped his hand on a towel before getting his StarkPhone out and taking a few quick pictures.

"That's it Peter, keep going. And when it's all over we'll—Tony, _what_ are you doing?" Steve asked. His husband came down the hall with an armful of metal and circuits and—was that a _blowtorch_? Tony tossed a pair of goggles to him before setting his stuff down on the _kitchen table for God's sake _and strapping a pair onto Peter.

"Cool, what are we doing Dad?" Peter asked.

"Carving pumpkins!" Tony responded cheerfully. He grabbed another pumpkin. "Put your goggles on, Capsicle."

"Tony, this is not how we carve pumpkins," Steve said disapprovingly, but he strapped the goggles on all the same. Tony'd start up whether he did or not anyway. Tony pulled out a pen laser and used it to cut a hole in the top of the pumpkin. Then he brought out some tabletop device that he used to scoop out all the goop inside.

"How long have you been _planning_ this?" Steve complained. He'd made a _bot_ to take the fun out of pumpkin carving.

"Oh, forever Cap-i-tan," Tony said. When the bot finished, Tony helped Peter use the laser to carve out a face on the pumpkin. It was all over quite quickly, and then they all removed their goggles. Steve didn't realize he was pouting until Tony pointed it out. "What's wrong?"

"That's not—that's not how you _carve pumpkins_, Tony," Steve said shaking his head. But Peter was happy, so he didn't press the issue.

"Well, it's not how you _traditionally_ carve pumpkins, but we've never been for traditional, have we?" Tony asked cheerfully. "Hey, Pete, check out this light—it's LED and it's got a motion sensor, so when kids come to the door it'll flash and make creepy laughing—here." Tony waved his hand in front of the small device and it cackled. Peter grinned and settled it carefully inside the pumpkin before replacing the top.

"Let's go put it on the porch!" Peter said. He tried to pick up the pumpkin, but it was a bit heavy for him, so Tony grabbed it and they headed out to the porch. Steve just sat at the table, feeling like the rug was pulled out from underneath him.

"Do you think it'll scare the other kids?" he heard Peter ask from the hallway.

"Scare 'em? It'll _terrify_ 'em, just you wait Peter. And oh—look at this, let's see if it works. This should make it levitate just a little, hover off the ground and move around, that'll _really_ freak 'em out—" Steve stopped listening and went back to his sad little pumpkin with half the guts scooped out. A little glumly, he reached his hand in and fished out the rest. Tony and Peter came back.

"Slowpoke," Tony said. "Your 'old man' is showing." Steve knew he was just teasing, but he couldn't help but bristle a little.

"Well, we don't all have lasers, Tony," Steve said a little tersely. Tony frowned, but Peter cut in before he could say anything.

"Can I get in costume yet?" Peter asked. He was adventuring as the Hulk this year. Bruce had sighed heavily when they'd told him.

"Why don't you wait for a bit, buddy? Trick-or-treating doesn't start for another hour," Steve advised, scooping out more pumpkin guts. Peter nodded, paused, then said,

"Did they trick-or-treat when you were a kid?" he asked. Steve smiled a little tightly.

"Nope," he said. "Trick-or-treating wasn't a tradition when I was a kid. Didn't start until I was a teenager. But we _did_ dress up in costumes and go to parties. And we _did_ carve pumpkins."

"What were _you_ as a kid?" Peter asked.

"Oh, I don't really remember," Steve said dismissively. "A cowboy, one year I think." Peter laughed.

"That's so _lame_, Pops!" he said. Steve wasn't sure when they'd made the transition from 'Papa' to 'Pops' but Steve was pretty sure it was Tony's fault, and he wasn't sure if he liked it yet or not. When Tony had said _Pops_ it always sounded mocking, and even though he knew Peter didn't mean it that way, it still made him a little uncomfortable. "I'm gonna go change." With that, Peter ran off. Steve watched him go, and then turned his attention back onto the pumpkin. He might have hacked at it a little violently, and when he was done it had a truly jagged, Jack o'Lantern look.

"What's wrong?" Tony asked.

"Nothing," Steve said, but it came out sharper than he'd intended.

"Oh, right, _nothing_, that's why you're snapping at me," Tony said, raising an eyebrow.

"Sorry," Steve mumbled. He put down the little carving knife and sat down. "It's just—that's not how you carve pumpkins, Tony."

"Seriously? This is about the pumpkin?" Tony asked, perplexed. "It's just a pumpkin, Steve, and Peter loved it—and the trick-or-treaters, they'll love it too."

"Yeah, I know, it's cool," Steve said. He waved it away. "Forget it." Tony frowned. He put his hands on Steve's shoulders.

"I'm not going to forget it, you're upset about something," Tony said. "Talk to me."

"It's Halloween, let's just have a good time," he said, shrugging out of Tony's embrace. He got up to wash his hands. Tony looked hurt. Steve felt guilty. He stuck his hands under the water. "Tony it's just—there's not much left from before, for me. I grew up in the thirties. Everyone I knew is dead, most everything from that era is gone—I'm not complaining. I made my peace with it." Steve shut off the water and grabbed a towel.

"Traditions—like carving pumpkins with the whole family…well, all right, I carved pumpkins with my Mom—traditions like that, they're all I've got left, Tony. They're the only thread back, the only connection to everything and everyone I knew. And sometimes…sometimes I just don't want things to change. Not even for the better. I know it's selfish. I shouldn't begrudge you your awesome lasers and lights and—did you seriously put reversion technology on the bottom of that pumpkin? Anyway, you're right, Peter loved it, and that's the important thing." He set the towel down and turned back to Tony, who was staring at him intensely. After a minute with no talking, it got a little uncomfortable.

"What are you thinking, Tony?" Steve asked.

"I'm thinking I wonder just how much you shield me from," Tony said seriously. "I'm wondering how much pain you hide from me, that all that can come out from a pumpkin when you've never said anything about any of this before." Steve shifted uncomfortably.

"I don't—it's not—" he tried to speak, but he didn't know what to say.

"You don't ever have to shield me from yourself, Steve," Tony said. "In fact I'd prefer if you didn't. You don't have to shoulder all that alone. _You_ can read _me_ like a book. It's a bit unfair that you're like a sphinx to me."

"I'm hardly a sphinx, Tony," Steve said, amused by the analogy.

"Well, maybe not a sphinx, but at least a James Joyce novel."

"My God, that's _worse_," Steve said with a laugh. Tony grinned, but there was a seriousness in his eyes that lay beneath the lighthearted banter.

"I AM THE HULK! RAWR!" Peter shouted, running into the kitchen in his comically bulked-up Hulk costume.

"Iron Man! The Hulk's gone on a rampage through the kitchen! What's your call?" Steve asked, pressing a finger to his ear as if to activate the comm..

"Surrender! We surrender all food and candy!" Tony said.

"HULK DOESN'T WANT FOOD! HULK WANT SMASH!" Peter roared.

"Oh no! Captain, what do we do?" Tony asked.

"We'll have to contain the situation! Give him something to smash!" Steve said. He grabbed the bowl of pumpkin guts and opened the door to the small backyard. Peter stepped outside with glee, flinging pumpkin guts everywhere. Steve got a chest full of it—but that was all right. He'd be changing into his _own_ costume soon enough. Halloween was the one day of the year when his family could be a family in public, after all. They were going to take full advantage of it. Steve just crossed his arms and watched his son's 'rampage' in amusement. Tony came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist.

"Somehow I don't think this was one of those traditions you were talking about," Tony said with amusement.

"No," Steve agreed. "But it could be." Tony gave him a peck on the cheek and they both just watched Peter make a mess until he was red-faced from the effort and the cold. They brought him inside. His Hulk costume was messy with pumpkin guts, but, really, it just added to the ambiance. Tony and Steve got into costume (Steve into a terrible rendition of the Mach VII, and Tony into an ill-fitting Captain America costume) before heading out to trick-or-treat with Peter, who happily skipped along out in front of them.

Eventually Bruce showed up (as a vampire), catching them as they walked along the neighborhood, and Clint and Natasha showed up soon after that, dressed as—well, they claimed to be James Bond and a Bond girl (Steve couldn't remember which one), but really they didn't look much different than they usually did. A hazard, Steve figured, of already being _actual_ super spies.

It was, Steve realized after a minute, a tradition in and of itself, one that they'd had since his first years out of the ice. And, maybe it didn't have roots in his childhood, maybe it didn't have roots in _before_, but it was a tradition all the same. And Steve liked tradition.

Still, he couldn't help but laugh when they got back home and found that Tony's pumpkin had committed suicide, accidentally smashing itself when the reversion technology had malfunctioned, while his own candle-lit Jack o'Lantern burned on.

Tradition-And-The-Old-Fashioned-Way: One

Half-Assed Stark Tech: Zero


	6. Hero

All Peter wanted was a sprite. He stared up at the too-bright white lights of the 7-11, having to squint to really see anything. He could hear the cashier shouting, could see the heavy black combat boots of the thief running away, unintentionally dipping his feet in Peter's blood and leaving footprints as he left. Peter turned his head and looked at the girl next to him. The life had already left her green-gray eyes. The blood that pooled in a halo around her head mingled with the blood that poured from Peter's side. All he had wanted was a sprite. It was just a few feet from his hand, where it had rolled when he'd dropped it. And all Peter could think was that he'd just wanted a sprite, and now he was going to die on the dirty floor of a 7-11, because he wouldn't drink coke.

He'd been working in his dad's lab late at night, helping him with a few repairs and modifications to his latest iron man suit. Peter was a natural at working on the flight aspects, and occasionally, _occasionally_ if Peter was very lucky, his dad would need 'practical application help'. This was, of course, Tony's special brand of BS, but it was one that Peter appreciated, because it meant that Peter would get to try out a bit of the suit. He'd never tried the whole armor on before, but on one memorable occasion, he'd been allowed arms and legs and got to fly a bit around the lab with his dad's careful supervision. He doubted Tony would _ever_ let him try on a full suit, but trying on bits and pieces was almost as good.

Peter rubbed his eyes—it was getting late. He was almost done with his part of the project, but it would be a couple of hours at least before he could turn in. He wandered over to the mini-fridge his dad kept below his desk and opened it up. It was filled with beer and a few cans of coca-cola. Coke was Pops' favorite soda (and his favorite drink in general, seeing as he didn't really bother with alcohol), but Peter didn't care for it. Pops said it was un-American. Tony said he couldn't possibly be his son. Peter told them both to 'sod off', he'd move to England and JARVIS could be his dad.

"Why isn't there anything for _me_ in here?" Peter complained. His Dad blinked, taking a second to look away from his work and glance in the fridge.

"What do you mean? There's plenty for you," he replied.

"So I'm allowed to drink beer now?" Peter asked.

"No, but there's coke."

"You only have ONE KID, how hard is it to remember that I _hate_ coke?" Peter huffed.

"Well excuuuuuuse me," Dad said. "If you can't stand coke why don't you just go get something else?"

"From _where_?"

"I don't know, a convenience store?" Dad said.

"Ugh, fine," Peter said. He reached into his dad's jacket pocket and pulled a ten out of his wallet. "You want anything?"

"You to like coke," Dad said cheekily. Peter rolled his eyes.

"Be back in ten," he said. He exited the lab, taking the front exit. He didn't usually go out to through the lobby, but no one was around, given that it was nearly midnight. Peter popped up his hood against the cold as he exited Stark Tower and made his way down the street.

The nearest place was a 7-11. It was small, and far too bright. There were only three other people in the store—a cashier, a young woman with a basket full of ice cream, chocolate, and medication, and some guy trying to pick a type of beer despite the fact that he already looked too drunk to stand. Peter made his way to the back for the refrigerated section. He grabbed a bottle of sprite and made his way to the check-out, getting in line behind the girl with the ice cream and the Midol.

"That'll be $12.60," the cashier said. The girl handed over a ten and then started rummaging in her purse.

"I'm sorry, hang on just a second, I know I've got more cash in here somewhere—" she said. Just as she pulled her pink wallet out of her brightly patterned purse, another customer walked through the door. He came straight up to the counter.

"Give me your money," commanded the 'customer'. The girl just looked at him for a second, uncomprehending. It took a second for it to sink in for Peter, too, but the delay just aggravated the man. "Give me your money! Now!" The girl glanced quickly at Peter and the cashier, frightened, but both Peter and the cashier stood just as frozen. Slowly, with trembling hands, the girl just handed over her wallet. The burglar turned to the cashier. "You too, pal."

"I-," the cashier started to object, but the burglar whipped out a gun from under his sweatshirt.

"Today!" he shouted.

"Woah, easy there," Peter said cautiously, an icy fear gripping his heart. The cashier began to open the drawer. "Why don't you just put the gun down?" The gunman wheeled on Peter. Peter put his hands up.

"And you too," the man demanded. Peter reached into his jeans' pocket and pulled out the ten he had, He handed it to the gunman. "And your wallet."

"I don't have it with me," Peter said honestly.

"GIVE IT TO ME!" the gunman shouted, brandishing his gun.

"He doesn't have it just let him go!" the girl said, sounding hysterical.

"SHUT UP!" the gunman said. "GIVE IT!"

"I don't—"

"He doesn't have it! Why don' you just leave him a—" The gunman moved so fast Peter didn't even have time to react. The gun went off.

"I SAID SHUT UP!" the gunman yelled, but of course, the girl had already shut up. The bullet through her brain had ensured that. Peter lunged for the gun, but the gunman wasn't as distracted as Peter had assumed. They wrestled with it for a moment, and then Peter heard the gun go off again. Suddenly he was on the ground, staring up at the ceiling. Peter put his hand to his side and then brought it up to look at it—it came away bloody. He had enough presence of mind to press his hand to the wound, but he couldn't help but feel that it wouldn't do any good. There was already so much blood everywhere.

The criminal made his getaway, and Peter looked at the eyes of the dead girl, the girl who had only been trying to help him. She was pretty. She was only a few years older than him. And now they were both about to die—and for what? Because she needed ice cream and Midol, and because Peter wouldn't drink coke—because some lunatic wanted her wallet and his ten dollars.

And then EMTs were over him. Peter couldn't quite make out what they were saying. It sounded like they were underwater now. And Peter didn't know how long he'd been on the floor for before they showed up. It could have been ten seconds, ten minutes, or ten days—at that moment, Peter couldn't tell the difference. They loaded him onto a stretcher, and they wheeled him into the ambulance. But all Peter could see was faces and ceilings, and the night sky of New York City briefly when they brought him out, the bright sign of Stark Tower easily visible against the darkness.

And then he was being wheeled through the hospital—Peter could tell because the ceiling passed by faster, and more people were shouting, but what about Peter wasn't sure. 50CCs of something…What was a CC? All Peter could think of was Mario Kart. His vision began to blur.

_This is it_, Peter thought. He wished that his last thought could have been more profound, but it wasn't. Had he been more capable of thinking at all, he would have thought of his dads, would have wondered about all the loose ends in his life, but all he could think was that this was the end. And something about Mario Kart. And then Peter's world went dark.

Tony had, for various reasons, not been excited when he'd learned that he was about to be a father. For one thing, it meant truly admitting that he'd cheated on Steve. For another thing, he would be a _terrible_ father, just like his dad was to him. He didn't believe anyone when they told him that fatherhood was the best thing in the world. In the nine months leading up to Peter's birth, it had been nothing short of hell, and Tony couldn't imagine that getting any better when there was a screaming infant in the picture. But of course the minute Tony had held Peter in his arms, he'd known that his son was perfect. And he'd known that everything was going to be ok, as long as this little boy was well and happy. And Tony had spent his life ever since working to keep Peter that way.

He'd worried about villains finding out who he was. He'd worried about Peter getting older and insisting on going into the 'family business' (and Tony certainly didn't mean Stark Industries). He'd worried about Natasha's teaching him karate or ju-jitsu or whatever it was that made her a killing machine, he'd fretted over Clint babysitting him when he was a toddler, certain he'd come home to an infant minus an eye. He'd made sure that not even his company's competitors knew that Peter existed, for fear that they might harass or hurt him. The worst days of Tony's life had been the days when Peter had been kidnapped.

But the worst hours, Tony thought, might be now.

Peter hadn't come back from the 7-11 after ten minutes. He hadn't been back after fifteen or twenty, either. So Tony had gone down there himself, only to find a cashier being interviewed by police who told him that a young boy had been shot and was on his way to the hospital.

Tony got there as fast as he could, but when he asked after his son, they only told him one thing:

"His condition is critical—we cannot say for now whether or not he'll make it through."

Tony's heart had sunk with every word. And now he was in the hospital's waiting room. Steve's arm around him, neither of them speaking, neither of them even looking at the other, just staring off into space.

But even the great Tony Stark couldn't keep his emotions in check, and suddenly he burst out,

"Why couldn't I just remember that he fucking hates coke? Why couldn't I—" But then he was enveloped in Steve's arms as he just repeated that over and over again into his husband's chest: _fucking coke, fucking coke, why couldn't I remember…_

Peter opened his eyes. He could still only see the ceiling. He tried to sit up, but a searing pain forced him back down.

"Peter? Peter, oh, God, Peter—" Peter heard his dad say, and then suddenly there were his dads in his field of vision, both looking as drained as Peter felt, but he saw relief on their faces too. Truth be told, Peter was a little relieved. He couldn't believe that he wasn't dead. Or was he?

"Am I dead?" Peter asked, for clarification. His throat was dry.

"No," his dad replied, "and if you're ever in another position where you have to ask me that question, I'll kill you." Peter's hands were suddenly not his own as his Dad took one and his Pops the other. They were squeezing a little overly tight, but Peter wasn't going to complain.

"How are you feeling, Peter?" Pops asked. Peter shrugged.

"How do you usually feel after getting shot?" Peter asked.

"A hell of a lot better than you do I expect, given my healing abilities and the fact that I wear flexible armor," Pops said seriously.

"I'm ok. I'm better than that girl, anyway," Peter said, a lump forming in his throat and tears threatening to come out from behind his eyes.

"We heard there was a fatality," Pops said quietly.

"She was just trying to help," Peter said in a strangled voice. "She just—I didn't have my wallet and he didn't believe me, and she was just telling him to leave me alone and he shot her. He just shot her through the head, and I jumped for the gun, but I couldn't get it away and then it went off and there wasn't anything I could do." The tears spilled over. Peter's throat felt raw. "She was—she was just trying to be a hero." Pops smoothed back Peter's hair. He told him it would all be ok. But Peter had a pit in his stomach that he couldn't shake. He could still see those green-gray eyes and he knew that he'd be able to see them for the rest of his life. He looked up at his dad. He didn't offer him any comfort. He just looked right back with a tired expression.

Because, Peter knew, his dad knew that even if things might be _all right_, nothing would ever quite be the same again. Because Peter knew the price, had seen and felt the price first hand, of being a hero.


	7. Peter Isn't Sick

_Saturday, September 9th, 2028_

Peter wasn't sick. He _wasn't_. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him. He had a tiny cough, every thirty seconds or so. He had a headache, but it was nothing a little Tylenol couldn't cure. His muscles were definitely _not_ achy, his nose was _barely_ stuffed—he could breathe if he blew it every ten minutes. Peter _wasn't_ sick.

Of course, Pops didn't see it that way.

"Peter, get back in bed," Pops said, exasperated. "What are you even doing?" Peter sat at his desk, drawing up plans on graphing paper.

"I'm not sick," Peter insisted. "I'm fine." It would have, perhaps, sounded more convincing if he had staved off the coughing fit that came between "I'm" and "fine".

"You are _not_ fine, get back in bed," Pops insisted, walking over to his desk. He looked like he was contemplating physically removing Peter from his desk, but then he peered down at his work. "What _is _this?"

"Plans. For your suit. Helping Dad with this new material—s'like spandex but bulletproof," Peter said.

"Peter, your dad can work on that by himself, you don't need to be worrying over it while you're sick," Pops said, taking away his pencil and putting it down on the desk.

"Not sick," Peter replied, making a grab for the pencil, but Pops blocked his arm.

"_Are_ sick," Pops said. "Do I have to pick you up, or are you going to go quietly to your bed in defeat?"

Peter considered grabbing onto the chair, for a moment, but he knew that eventually Pops would be able to prize him from it. Oh, what he wouldn't give at the moment to be able to _stick_ to things. When he didn't reply, Pops sighed and started to grab him. Peter jumped up.

"Fine, fine," Peter sighed. "Bed." Pops folded his arms and raised an eyebrow until Peter reluctantly made his way back to the bed.

"You're just going to get up the second I leave the room, aren't you?" Pops asked.

"No," Peter replied innocently. Perhaps _too _innocently.

"Get out of that bed one more time and I'm using your laptop's webcam and connecting it to mine downstairs so I'll _know_ when you get up," Pops said firmly. Peter gaped at him.

"That's—that's a huge invasion of privacy!"

"You're _sick_ Peter, and I'm telling you not to get out of this bed. Go to _sleep_," Pops said. He turned out the lights, left the room, and shut the door behind him.

Peter grumbled to himself. Pops would hear the squeaks of the floor if he got up, but he _had_ to get to his designs. He turned on his bedside lamp and contemplated the six feet that stood between him and his designs. Hmph. This would take a little creative engineering of its own.

Steve was _tired_. Tony was in California for some work thing (Steve rarely asked what—he understood maybe half of what Tony was saying when he explained his tech and his R&D work. It wasn't that Steve was bad with technology, although he wouldn't consider it his forte, it was just that Tony worked way beyond a basic level, way beyond an _advanced_ level, and in so many _different_ scientific fields that Steve could hardly keep up.), the Avengers fought rogue robots just that morning (fucking _Richards_), and now Peter was sick (and obstinate). He had a _mountain_ of paperwork waiting for him that he'd brought home from the Triskelion so that Peter wouldn't have to be alone, and frankly some of the things that he needed to fill _out_ the paperwork were still at base, causing him a gigantic logistical headache that would surely involve one of the junior agents having to run back and forth from his office while he waited for the necessary information on his phone.

Oh, how he sometimes _longed_ for the days when it was a simple matter of see-Nazi-punch-Nazi-finish-mission-sleep. Not that he'd ever give up Tony or Peter—but he'd sure love to give up paperwork.

He sighed and sat down at the table again with his coffee. He'd only gone to check on Peter because he _knew_ the kid would try this again. He'd _never_ been ok with being sick. Tony would whine and complain and generally behave like a three-year-old. Steve would coddle him with chicken soup and cuddling (because it wasn't like Steve was likely to get sick, anyway) and his favorite movies (even the ones that Steve absolutely detested).

But Peter was another matter. Steve would _happily_ coddle him with chicken soup and cuddling and movie marathons, but Peter would _never _have it. In stark opposition to his father, Peter always denied the fact that he was sick. Steve had no idea _why_, but it had ended in some unfortunate scenarios, like the time they'd gone to Coney Island and he'd vomited on the teacup ride because he'd been sick with the _flu_ and hadn't said anything, or the time they'd been at Clint and Natasha's the night before and both Ana and Will ended up with fevers because _Peter hadn't said anything_ about being sick, or the time he'd gone to school and fainted in gym class when asked to run the mile because he had a 100 degree fever and _hadn't said anything!_

Steve didn't understand it, and it drove him absolutely up the wall. Tony's whining and generally awful behavior when he was sick Steve could accept and could handle. He _liked_ being able to care for Tony. He _hated_ that Peter wouldn't let Steve care for him, and more than that, his tendency _frightened_ Steve. What if Peter got really, really ill and he and Tony didn't notice? What if Peter, god forbid, had something like cancer and he and Tony didn't realize it until it was too late, all because Peter pretended that he wasn't sick?

Steve sighed and put down his pen. He couldn't think like this. He was just going to make some chicken soup anyway, even if Peter wouldn't eat it. He probably would, though. There were few people alive who could resist Steve's homemade chicken soup.

Halfway through cooking, Steve's phone rang. Steve practically jumped to it—Tony mentioned that he'd call when he got a chance—he picked up the phone.

"Tony?"

"Nay! I do so apologize Brother-in-Arms, but I am not the Man of Iron," Thor's voice boomed from the other end. Steve held the phone slightly away from his ear. Thor had never really gotten the hang of talking on the phone with people—he was like Ron Weasley trying to call Harry Potter (a reference Steve only knew from reading the books with Peter). But Thor wasn't stupid, so Steve was pretty sure he only did it to annoy or confuse or amuse people or something. _Pretty_ sure.

"Oh, it's ok, Thor, what do you need?" Steve said, putting the phone between his ear and his shoulder and stirring the chicken soup.

"Paperwork! It requires your signature as team captain! I have been commandeered by the Son of Coul to obtain it from you and return to the Triskelion!" Thor replied. Steve nearly groaned aloud, but he suppressed it into a tired sigh.

"Ok, can you bring it around and I'll take a look? I can't leave, Peter's sick," Steve said.

"Oh, the mighty midgardian offspring is unwell? What a shame—I will boost his spirits and scare away the demons that plague him when I visit!" Thor said.

"That really isn't nece—" the phone clicked. Thor had already hung up. Having exceeded his exasperated sigh quota of the day, Steve just hung up the phone and put it down on the counter. "Okay then."

In a feat of acrobatics _surely_ worthy of Cirque du Soleil, Peter had managed to wrap his sheet around his ceiling fan, and swing himself from said fan carefully, _quietly_ onto his desk. He grabbed his designs and his pencil, held them in his mouth and swung with the sheet—

Except apparently ceiling fans weren't supposed to take the full weight of gangly twelve-year-old boys, because the mechanism hold the blades to the electronics snapped, and Peter fell to the floor with a _very_ loud THUMP.

"I'm kind of hoping he's _asleep_, Thor," Steve said as he glanced over the paperwork. "So it's probably best if we just leave him."

"Ah, yes, rest _is_ likely for the best," Thor agreed as Steve thumbed through the pages. "You Midgardians are so fragile! Requiring sleep so frequently!"

"Myself less than others, but yes, I'd generally agree with you," Steve said absently. "This looks fine, let me just get a pen." Steve wandered further into the house and Thor followed behind him. He got out a pen and then—

_THUMP_

"Ah! The mighty midgardian is awake!" Thor said happily, but Steve was already dashing up the stairs at full speed. That hadn't been a "I'm doing jumping-jacks in my room" thump, that had been a "the desk has fallen over and possibly squished me" thump. Steve ripped open the door so fast, he nearly tore it off its hinges. Peter was on the ground, his desk chair knocked over and the blades of the ceiling fan on top of him.

"Peter—_what_—" Steve said, practically speechless as he went to help his son.

"_Designs_!" Peter practically wailed, pointing. Steve moved his foot—he'd been stepping on them unwittingly. He went a different way and picked Peter up, setting him back in the bed.

"Did you break anything? You're still breathing, so I consider that a good sign," Steve said.

"No," Peter said, "I don't think so."

"What the _hell_ were you doing?" Steve demanded.

"I wanted my designs," Peter said, a bit meekly now. Perhaps Steve had been a little harsh—he softened his expression and tone.

"Peter, please, the next time I tell you to stay in bed _just stay in bed_," Steve pleaded. "At the very least, be sane and sensible and go grab something if you want it—don't nearly kill yourself trying to get to it! Why on _earth_ were you—what, swinging from the ceiling fan?"

"To get to my _designs_," Peter said. "They were still on the desk. And you told me not to leave the bed. And if I'd walked on the floor you would have _heard_, the floor _squeaks_, and you would have come up and yelled at me, and hacked my web cam, and maybe thrown my designs away or put them somewhere I couldn't get them."

"Well when you put it that way, you make me sound like a monster—am I monstrous to you?" Steve asked. "Are you really so afraid of me you'll break your neck avoiding me?" Steve's gut twisted. He knew what it was like to nearly break your neck trying to avoid your father, knew what it was like to be afraid. But thankfully, Peter shook his head.

"No," Peter said. "But I'm not sick. I want to work. And you won't let me."

"Peter," Steve said, putting a hand to Peter's forehead, "you have a fever. You're hacking up a lung. There's a _mountain_ of tissues next to your desk. You. Are. Sick." Peter shook his head.

"I want my designs," he said. Steve sighed. He was really reaching past that quota today.

"You know your dad will still love you, still be proud of you, if you don't finish those designs today, or tomorrow, or next week, or _ever_, right?" he asked, because he was running out of ideas as to _why_ on _earth_ Peter was acting this way.

"It's not about Dad!" Peter insisted. Steve just threw up his arms, finally fed up.

"Fine! Fine! Look, I just don't get this attitude, Peter. I'm trying to help you get better. If you keep working, you're only going to make yourself sicker, and if that's what you want, _fine_, I give up, go ahead, work yourself until you've put yourself into a coma and are _forced_ to rest and get better," Steve finished. He stormed out of the room and had to take care not to slam the door behind him. He knew he was being childish, but Peter was being _intolerable_!

Steve marched back downstairs, stormed past Thor, grabbed a pen, signed the papers, and thrust the whole document back at him while Thor watched him with a measured gaze.

"_What?_" Steve snapped. It wasn't like Steve to snap, especially not at people who didn't deserve it, but he'd finally just _had it_.

"The mighty midgardian _knows_ that he is ill," Thor said, gently taking the document.

"I _know_ he knows it. He knows it, I know it, the whole _damn world_ can see that he's sick, I just don't know why he won't _admit it_ and just _rest_ for the love of God, is it _so difficult_? He drives me _nuts _with this stuff!" Steve said.

"If he does not wish to make the admission despite all evidence pointing to his grievous state, then there must be some reason," Thor said. "I think that I had best go—the son of Coul will be waiting most anxiously for my return!" Thor said, still watching Steve. Steve hated it when he did that. One minute, Thor was oblivious, and the next he had more insight into the inner workings of people than Natasha.

"Yeah—I'm sorry, Thor," Steve said.

"Think not of it!" Thor replied. He clapped Steve on the shoulder and then left. Steve grabbed his phone from the counter, next to the now cold and half finished chicken noodle soup. He hit the number one speed dial.

"Steve? I'm kind of in the middle—"

"Is it legal to swaddle your children past the age of newborn?"

"_What_?"

"Peter won't get any rest and he's sick and I give up, I don't know what to do," Steve said, practically whining.

"…well what do you want ME to do, I'm in California!" Tony said, sounding bewildered.

"I don't know—talk to him? He's working on these designs he said he's doing with you—something about bulletproof spandex, I think—he says this has nothing to do with _you_ but I can't get him to put those papers down and just sleep," Steve said helplessly. "He's just going to make himself feel worse." For a moment on the phone, there was no answer, and Steve wondered if Tony had hung up on him, to go back to doing whatever it was he'd been doing, but finally Tony answered.

"Steve," Tony said, sounding almost amused, "this _doesn't_ have anything to do with me."

"You could still try to talk to him! He won't listen to me!" Steve said.

"_Steve_. This has nothing to do with _me_. Peter's never acted like me when he gets sick. He acts like you," Tony said.

"Tony, I don't get sick," Steve said, confused.

"Exactly," Tony said.

"But I _don't get sick_," Steve repeated. Tony actually laughed.

"Oh, Cap, you're hearing me but you aren't listening at all," he said.

"Tony, I _actually don't get sick_," Steve insisted. "I don't come down with colds, or the flu, or any normal human viruses anymore, my immune system beats them off. Peter's just _pretending_ he isn't sick."

"And why do you think that is?" Tony asked. "What have you always done when you've come home with a broken limb or a black eye or nasty gash or burn? You've toughed it out. You don't complain. I try to give you pain medication and you brush me off. You might not get _sick_, per se, but it's not _me_ Peter's playing tough guy for. When he was sick when you were—well, gone, three years ago, he had the flu and complained loudly and often to me, and he never left his bed. I had JARVIS put his favorite movies on a loop."

"You never told me that," Steve said.

"It's kind of an oddly specific thing to talk about, don't you think?" Tony said, sounding very distracted. "Look, Steve, I'm—"

"In the middle of something, I know, I know. I'll talk to you later," Steve said.

"Bye Steve. Love you."

"Love you too," Steve replied, then hung up the phone. He looked up at the ceiling. Time for some father/son bonding time.

It really hadn't helped anything, swinging from the ceiling and landing on his butt. Now his muscles _were_ achy, his bum hurt, and his headache raged. Not only that, but his stomach turned at the thought of the motion of the swinging, and it was all Peter could do to keep it from revolting when he thought about falling through the air. He tried to work on the designs, but he couldn't concentrate. He was sweaty and felt _awful_ and he wondered what cruel God had ever invented germs (Loki, Peter decided on, it must have been Loki because it was _always_ Loki's fault). There was a knock on Peter's door.

"Peter? You up?" Pops' soft voice floated through.

"Yeah," Peter said. Pops opened the door and came inside. He sat on the side of Peter's bed, and looked him over once.

"I know I don't talk about it much, but you know when I was your age, I was ninety pounds soaking wet," Pops said, his gaze a little distant. "I was always getting beaten on by the older boys—I wouldn't say I _picked fights_, exactly, but uh, I wasn't the type to 'choose my battles' so to speak, either. I wished I was bigger and stronger—not just so that I could stand up to the bullies a little easier, but because I was always sick. You name it, I had it. Probably the worst bit was the asthma—I couldn't even _do_ more physical activity to get bigger or stronger because I'd have an asthma attack if I did.

"I spent a lot of time in bed. I didn't have computers or even television for that matter, so I listened to the radio a lot. I read a lot. I practiced drawing—got pretty good, if I do say so myself. I hated it, but I stayed in that bed and I got my rest, and I'm glad I did. Because if I hadn't, if I'd made myself worse—well, I might have never made it to Project Rebirth in the first place. I wasn't weak because I had to stay in bed. Being the little guy didn't make me weak—and by that same token, toughing it out wouldn't have made me any stronger. Do you get what I'm trying to say, Peter?" Pops asked, finally looking at him, his forehead scrunched up like he'd managed to confuse himself.

"You're telling me 'stay in bed, Peter' with all the finesse of an after-school special," Peter said, amused.

"Well yes—and no," Pops said, ignoring the jibe. "I'm telling you that being sick doesn't make you weak, that knowing when to stand down doesn't mean you're lacking in courage."

"I know. I—" Peter took a deep breath as he felt his stomach turn again. "—I could really use some advil." Pops gently ruffled his hair.

"You got it, kiddo," he said. "I'll bring up some chicken soup while I'm at it." Pops rose off the bed.

"No, Papa, I don't think soup is a good—" but Peter never finished that sentence. He threw off the covers and ran to the bathroom as fast as his scrawny legs would take him.

"Ok, no soup," Pops said a minute later as Peter got out his toothbrush. "Saltines and ginger ale it is."

"You want to say it."

"No, Peter, I don't."

"I _know_ you want to say it, just do it."

"I'm not going to say it."

"Oh just _say it_ and get it over with."

"Fine! I _told you so_," Pops said, rolling his eyes. Peter stuck out his mint toothpaste covered tongue. As soon as Pops left, Peter's stomach rolled again.

Ok. Peter was _definitely_ sick.


	8. The Ring

Peter's eyes widened as the girl began to emerge from the television. He glanced up at his Dad, who watched with no appearance of alarm as he took a handful of popcorn from the bag. The five-year-old Peter looked back to the screen, his heart hammering. Her lank black hair covered her face, and her limbs were pale, paler than should have been humanly possible.

"Ha! I've seen scarier stuff crawl out of the labs at SHIELD HQ—how do they call this a horror movie?" his Dad asked, bewildered. Peter just sunk further into the couch, his eyes (which were nearly as wide as saucers) glued to the screen in silent terror as a man onscreen died of fright.

As the movie went on, Peter's heart never slowed, and his mind raced with horrifying images and terrible ideas. When the movie finished, Dad turned off the VCR and stretched.

"Wow, that was stupid. I'm beat, Pete—what about you?"

"Uh-huh," Peter said.

"Good, 'cause it's already past your bedtime and your Pops is going to kill me for letting you stay up," Dad said. "Let's just keep this our little secret, huh champ?"

"Ok Daddy," Peter said. He followed closely behind his Dad as he turned off all the lights downstairs and went up the stairs. Peter even followed him into his dad's room. His dad turned and looked at him.

"Do you want to be tucked in, Peter?" he asked. Peter just nodded vigorously. His dad smiled softly.

"Ok, champ," he said. He took Peter's hand and walked with him to his bedroom. He helped him change into his pajamas and then into bed, pulling the covers tight over him. He kissed his forehead. "Goodnight, Peter." His dad turned to go.

"Wait!" Peter said. His Dad turned around.

"What is it, Peter?" he asked. Peter's stomach squirmed. He didn't want his dad to leave him, because the scary girl from the television might come and get him. But he didn't want his dad, the brave Iron Man, to think that Peter was afraid, either.

"Um…song?" Peter asked. Dad smiled tiredly, and sat back down on the side of Peter's bed.

"All right, buddy," he said. "What song do you want?"

"Captain America!" Peter said. He could use a little extra bravery right now, and his Pops had plenty of bravery to spare. Dad chuckled a bit.

"Ok, Peter," he said, and then he began to sing.

_Who's strong and brave,_

_Here to save_

_The American Way?_

Dad sang a shortened version of the song, leaving out a few verses. Normally Peter wouldn't mind, but he didn't want his Dad to go.

"No—you have to sing it again you left out pieces," Peter insisted.

"It's time for bed, kiddo," Dad said, not unkindly. "Goodnight." He kissed his forehead and turned out the light. Peter watched him go, the glow of his arc reactor outlining his figure.

Peter sunk deep into his bed. He couldn't see much of anything. Vague, dark shapes were scattered around his room. Rationally, Peter knew what these were—his desk, his toy chest, his model of the Millennium Falcon—but in his fear, Peter could see a whole host of other things—a TV out of which the scary girl might crawl, the wishing well from the movie, and worst of all, out of the corner of his eye Peter thought he saw something move.

For a few moments, he just clutched at his covers in terror. _I'm a big brave superhero, I'm a big brave superhero, I'm a big brave superhero, _Peter chanted in his head over and over again. Out his window, lightning flashed and illuminated (what Peter could have sworn was) a figure in the corner of his room. He let out a strangled, little boy scream and leapt from his bed, speeding down the hall to his dads' room with record speed. He opened the door and ran inside, diving under the covers and clinging to his dad's side.

"She's gonna get me!" Peter yelled.

"Who's gonnna get you, Peter?" Peter heard his Pops' voice. If Peter had been able to see, he would have seen that his Pops had just gotten in from work at the Avengers HQ. He was in his underwear and a shirt, probably getting ready to change for bed. His Dad was already in bed, a tablet in his hand. He felt his Dad's hand on his back.

"The scary girl! She's gonna get me!" Peter said, never removing his face from his dad's side. If he had, he would have seen the expression of consternation on his pops' face, and the answering look of 'oops, my bad, forgive me?' on his dad's. He felt his dad's hands around his torso as he lifted him up, making him look at him and at Pops (who had put on sweatpants by that point).

"Peter, the scary girl isn't real. It's just a movie," Dad said gently.

"She's gonna get me!" Peter said, near hysterics. He felt ashamed of it, but tears leaked from his eyes. Pops joined them on the bed and picked up Peter, pulling him into his lap. Peter instantly felt safer, with those big strong arms wrapped all around his body.

"Nobody's going to get you Peter," Pops said. "Not while your Dad and I are here, ok?" Peter clutched at Pops' shirt, his tears soaking in. He nodded.

"C-can I s-sleep in here t-tonight?" Peter asked timidly.

"Of course, champ," Dad replied gently (his expression was, though Peter could not see it, incredibly guilty, and Pops was giving him "the look"). His pops held him until he fell asleep.

"Ok, this is the last time you're watching him alone until he's in his teens. Next time Bruce is watching him _with_ you," Steve said firmly. Tony felt suitably chastised. And ever after, neither Peter nor Tony would ever watch _The Ring_ again.


End file.
